for all the blood you have shed
by jarofclay42
Summary: [AkaKuro, fantasy AU] Akashi Seijuurou sits on the threshold of the courtyard like a judge who has delivered the final verdict, perched above everyone else and waiting for the bloodbath to unfold.


**I have long forgotten why I wanted to write this fic bc of stuff (sUCH AS? KUROKO DOING NOTHING, HOW COULD I EVEN WRITE THIS FIc). But i was lured into believing this would come out to be really short and instead it's 10k+ with barely any akakuro in it im so FKNCIG. Its almost not even a knb fic? it's mostly made of OCs.**  
 **Nonetheless I really hope that even if it's a really fucked up story you will be able to enjoy it. remember we gotta be more loving and positive on christmas okok yes may the power of jesus guide you (even if this fic goes against all that is christmas AND jesus)(and thanks to Q and Ju my stRENGTH)**  
 **I changed some details about the workings of a certain Japanese mythological creature so that it could fit the plot and gay love could pierce through the veil of death and save the day (quite literally)**  
 **(ironically enough i keep writing fics that come out to perfectly match some songs from Florence and the Machine, so pls check out "Seven Devils" later or to get into the mood.)**  
 **happy bday akashi u idiot**

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The wavering burn of candles slips into your hazy sight, when your senses resurface. Warm halos and dark outlines contort on the paper walls like madly dancing bodies under your heavy-lidded eyes, for many heartbeats before you have the oddest realization, of lying not on blankets but the bare ground, the earthy smell of grass clogging your nostrils. That must be why one side of your body hurts in discomfort, and clumps of dirt cling to your cheek when you crane your neck to better see. Disoriented, you blink blearily, in search of a reason in the faltering shapes of the shadows.

It is your estate that stands before you, your courtyard you find yourself in; and yet there's a man taking your usual place on the _engawa_ , looking at ease as if he were the owner of the house. Candlelight bathes the _tatami_ floors of your chambers, reaches beyond the open _shoji_ panels and the back of the man, who sits cross-legged on the line between golden glows and the silvery caress of a waning moon. The shrouding darkness of the night swallows his contours, unmerciful towards your turmoil, but the tips of his hair trace an eerie crown of ruby gleams on the top of his head.

The auburn folds of a _hitatare_ envelope his figure in layers of practical elegance, one of the long sleeves carefully flattened away from the low basin placed beside his knee. From the ground you can't see what hides below the rim, but as your head lolls back down, too weak, the world shrinks to that basin and the hand moving in circles inside it, stirring its contents. Placid, entrancing motions capture your dizzy attention like soft-spoken secrets, holding the pain back—until the other arm moves subtly, picks up an _o-fuda_ from the floor. The hand resurfaces, digits smeared with a dense, liquid black. The man traces swift lines on the flimsy paper, then grasps it delicately between two fingers and brings it over the flame of a candle. Once it catches fire, he lets it flutter down into the basin.

You blink again, eyes watery. Your temples throb dully, as if the insides were padded with hemp; only when you try to bring your arms up to massage the pain away, you start piecing the situation together.

Tied securely behind your back, your wrists ache. A pale sinking fear constricts your chest, cutting off air from your needy lungs, luring you into another dangerous fit of dizziness.

'Help me,' you groan as you frantically struggle to pull yourself on your knees, tossing and turning in the ground like a pig. It's ungodly, that somebody permitted this happening to you, the major of the town. You tell yourself somebody will be certainly punished for this, but the truth is, you have little time to feel ashamed; you are used to people bowing at the mere snap of your fingers, and nothing makes you more agitated than seeing that man not react to your order in the slightest. He even dares to look away, utterly uninterested in your worries; you seem to be but a ghost to him. Full of outrage, you decide that his naked, beaten body will be the first one you will have thrown in a pit once this ends.

Getting on your unsteady feet clears your head a bit, makes all contours starker and your fears bleaker, but once the cloak of confusion lifts from your muffled mind, your cowering bravery wishes it had stayed.

Blood swirls inside the vase; it licks the fire out in a hiss, until only a consumed and blackened remnant floats on its thick surface. When you look back at the man, wide-eyed and panting, the wild movement of the dying flames lets you recognize him.

He has reached the town some days ago, with his group of… comrades, he had defined them with a rigid smile; watchdogs, what they really were, asking to speak with you. Bringing news from the governor, asking for some change, and sacrifices from you for the wishes of the _han_ 's lord. Then, offering ways to relieve your town of its current problem. You didn't truly expect a bunch of warriors to hold any solution, when an _onmyouji_ had already arrived to take care of it. But their higher rank and the very familiar name—and the _onmyouji_ ,walking the roads of your town with a way of making your skin crawl with mistrust—brought you to agree to his request. You let him in. Sharing a tea in your rooms is the last thing you remember.

'You.' Your own murmur doesn't reach your ears, drowned in an irksome ringing rising in the air. You stagger backwards like a newborn deer, shaken by the sheer intensity of the man's gaze settling onto your defenseless body. He could be made out of stone—whetted daggers for eyes, bathed in blood and just as cutting. His calm is as unsettling as the mightiest scream; the longer you face his silence, the more restless you grow. But your heel catches in something on the ground, and with a gasp you turn around.

You expected a rock catching the sole of your shoes; you find other three, four men, kneeling face down and tied, stiller than nature, discarded like sacks of food for anyone to dispose of. You recognize them at first glance, by their clothes or even their napes, all partners and influential people of the town, all living under your roof as your court, serving you. One of them as a gush peeking from the side of his throat. It's still dripping. You jerk back, glancing at the basin.

'What is the meaning of this?' you ask again, louder, desperate; but your attention strays from its intent as, instead, you finally take in the wide courtyard, other men standing on the perimeter like guard towers, long blades hanging from their waists. You can't see their faces but you know they're observing you like nocturne predators, attracted by the stink of fear. You wish to not give them a show of yours, but your knees already tremble, and you have to force the outraged yell out of your parched throat. 'I demand to know!'

The wind carries soft hums, reminiscences of rattling; so weak, they can hardly be heard over your shallow gasps and the harsh shuffling of your brocaded clothes in your frenzied spinning. But they remind you that the men around you are only one of the threats that have befallen your town.

The ringing grows deafening, and you warn in a weak murmur, 'We shouldn't be outside,' as you watch the grass wave with the breeze, pointing at the tall trees adorning the garden. The branches stretch in dark contortions, like snakes slithering in the air, shrugging leaves off as if shedding skin. Something seems to move amidst that quiet blackness, even if there should be nothing but a wall behind those trees, separating you from the rest of the town. You keep squinting at nothing but the woods bending and creaking, the darkness thickening between them as if the light were being sucked out. The hairs on your nape stand in anticipation; a bead of cold sweat steals a shiver out of your chest as it slides down your forehead.

Then a ghastly sound erupts from above like a grumbling from a grave, and your head snaps up just in time to catch the night rip open before your eyes—glimpses of ashen white and the abrupt, dreadful silence of the dead; over you, an immense cage of bones, diving down to close around your neck.

.

( The sun burns flickering shadows into his pupils the moment he squints his eyes open, making his head throb even harder. The ache of blooming bruises bursts from his back as he rolls over and gingerly pulls himself up, and nothing short of a weary sigh escapes him when one ankle groans dangerously under the weight on his first step.

He has shaky memories of being dragged across the dirt by the arms, the earth suddenly missing under his body, meeting rocks in an abrupt fall. Further details are of no importance. Those are all the memories he needs to understand the situation he got himself into.

The cave is empty, save for him. No plants, no spilling water; just a barren pit with concave walls and a dusty end. It's not very large; it takes only a handful of seconds to walk from one point to the furthest. Looking up at the round patch of sky shining blue above him, he feels his chest tightening. It seems so far.

But a try is due, so he stretches his limbs, preparing himself. The sunlight will start to fade soon, so it's better to act now. Taking some time to recollect his strength, he stands in the middle of the cave, scanning the steep slope of the walls carefully.

It's his ankle that makes him lose his footage at the first attempt, and he scrubs his chest raw against the rock before clumsily dropping to the hard ground in a cloud of dust, but at least with no new injuries. The second time, his fingertips find solid grip on the nude nooks in the wall only to find no more at a little distance from the ground. He falls, dusts himself off and tries again.

By the time the sunrays begin to waver, he sits down. The scratches on his fingers sting with the dust rubbing into them, and his shoulder pulses dimly where it accidentally took a hard hit. When he wipes a sheen of sweat from his dirty forehead, he stares at the back of his hand in concern. He's reached the number of attempts he had conceded to the cause, and it would only be foolish to waste more energy on an impossible climb; if the voices in town were true, he's in for a game of resilience. So he plops down against a wall and hugs his knees to his chest. Waiting was never his favorite course of action, but it's the best compromise he can afford.

There's an odd, rancid smell in the cave he tries not to pay attention to—it might be empty now, but he heard about its common use. It's better not to think about it. )

.

The people around you fidget, still sluggish from the drug, giving lackluster pulls at their tight ropes. A few are more lucid, like you; more alert, but they are foolish enough to look right into the woods, fright already shaking their bones. You, instead, know not to look, because the mere sight of that empty, awaiting darkness twists your guts and fills your mouth with acrid saliva, and because you do not look monsters in the eye. So you stay knelt to the ground as quiet as you can, pressing your forehead down almost painfully, hoping that when it will come it will pass you by, not noticing your little crouched form hiding in the dirt. You certainly have more chances than those moaning corpses to please the ones before you, who might change their minds and let you walk out of the courtyard alive. You will show them a reason to be pleased with you. If you kneel long enough, they might even allow you to partake in the rebuild of the town. New masters, new beginnings, that's all you wish for right now.

'If you could give me a chance, my lord, you would discover I can be of so much use,' you say conspiratorially just loud enough to let them hear you; they don't even glance your way.

'This won't accomplish anything.' You recognize one of the town's magistrates just by the fierce hiss. A brash man, always ready to jump at the throat of insubordination. Many used to praise him for his wit, but you think he is very stupid; acting defiant now will get him nowhere, he should bend his head down and pray for another kind of salvation. You turn your head only minimally to glance at the scene beside you, as if moving too much could attract unnecessary attention on you.

Akashi Seijuurou sits on the threshold of the courtyard like a judge who has delivered the final verdict, perched above everyone else and waiting for the bloodbath to unfold. His demeanor is suffocating. This is one of the things that scare you the most about that man: the end of the world could come crashing down and he'd still stand there, unaffected, maybe even leading it politely by the hand—the very cause of it himself.

He had been clear about what would happen from that first night, and all the following ones for as long as it took. His velvety voice echoes in your mind, a dangerous lull to the heart when his words carry the heaviness of a death sentence: there are three ways to banish an _odokuro_.

First, cast it away.

A difficult process; it requires an _onmyouji_ , but it gets rid of the danger soon and quickly. Rumors have often traveled all across the land, of nameless men binding giant skeletons into chains, sending them back into the world in-between. It was never hard to believe.

'Anything, you say.' Akashi's reproach almost sounds fatherly, even when a million knives hide behind each word and his sharp gaze, glinting in the feeble moonlight. 'I say, your existence only now has found its purpose, and you are about to fulfill it. We should consider that an accomplishment.'

The magistrate's anger does not relent. He seems to be waiting for Akashi to just try and break him—a fool. If he could see himself, shaking in what he must be telling himself is anger, he would realize he is already broken, as good as gone. There's no hope for those as uselessly proud as him, who never understood the subtle courage that lies in submission.

'I'll be a faithful servant, if you'll let me, my lords,' you start pleading again, to please and to cover the echoes in your head, of Akashi's voice, counting, the first, the second—

The second, let it die.

The energy of the severed lives it was born from will eventually burn out, and it will collapse. A natural occurrence, a matter of patience, fueled by the heartwarming knowledge that even monsters meet their end at some point.

'I know what you plan to do, I heard you. But those are all lies,' the magistrate grunts, and shakes his head like a scared horse. One of Akashi's nameless comrades, the one standing down on the ground, snorts. He looks relaxed, leisurely leaning against the _engawa_ 's edge, but the dark contours of his face suggest he's ready to draw his sword from the sheath at any moment. He looks like he if it were for him, he would have already killed you all by the kiss of steel. But you know he won't, because the third—

The third is, feed it.

Night by night, giving it the blood it asks for. After all, that is all a starving beast could want. And once it's satiated, the creature will have fulfilled its purpose, appeased its hunger.

You have never heard of this. You refuse to say it out loud like the magistrate, but you don't believe it either. It has to be just an excuse to get rid of you all, which is why you can't give up pleading for your life. As a hushed ringing calls from the woods, and you see the magistrate's defiance chipped away bit by bit, you frantically think that even if it was the only way to stop the monster, you wouldn't care less. You just wish to live, for as long as you can, forever.

'The dead do not come back. Only cursed spirits do. Whoever told you that was fooling you!'

You thought you were understanding the conversation, but what the magistrate just said makes no sense to you. Whatever the meaning might have been, though, Akashi's men must have understood because a huff comes from somewhere beside him. Through your teary vision, only now you notice a man leaning against the wooden corner of the house, grey clothes hiding him further in the shadows.

On his part, Akashi doesn't even move a muscle at the accusation. 'The future will tell us who is right.'

'Our town was fine before you came here, snooping around like rats,' the magistrate's voice rises. 'You had to come here and destroy everything! You're going to butcher a town for nothing!'

'We're the ones choosing what can be deemed nothing, and what is not,' the dark skinned man suddenly growls. 'And you are definitely nothing.'

'Aomine,' Akashi beckons him, and not by chance; in that moment, a flock of birds rises in flight from the swaying yellow trees. Akashi's men tense in anticipation, even if they must have been witnessing this every night. Only Aomine is blind to the growing restlessness, his eyes piercing in a deadly glare the now babbling man.

'You filth! You monsters—'

'Please, I beg you! I could give you anything you want, power, money, anything. All that is mine is yours!' you interject, feeling your time running short too quick.

'May you all be cursed, with all your families,' the magistrate spits, corroded by fear and anger, 'you and that stupid, filthy rat of yours who got himself kill—'

Aomine's sword is as swift as a flap of wings, it cuts through the man's neck cleanly and silences you on the spot. The head rolls in a heap of blood just as Aomine makes a fast retreat into the dark corner of the house's wall, his protective charm bumping on his chest.

Under the moon, risen to its peak in a perfect slice resembling the deadly curve of a blade, you only get to see another headless body fall a few feet away from you. Above the breathy whimpers, the crowns of the trees swish behind you, like a misplaced lullaby in your ears. A barely stifled sob escapes past your trembling lips.

'We want only one thing from you,' Akashi announces with a rigid smile as the screams reverberate in the night. You never manage to hear the end of the sentence.

.

( As predicted, no food nor water is lowered for him from the top of the cave. Without water, the sun seems to beat down more aggressively against his skin, and there's little space to hide from it when it is at its peak over the hole. He presses himself against the shaded walls for as long as he can before his limbs become restless; his eyes roam around attentively, as if one more glance might reveal something yet unseen. But he has checked all the corners of the cave. There are dusty tokens scattered around and hiding in the crannies, left behind by the previous ones. He has gone through all of them, looking for anything that could help but—nothing. It should have been obvious, and yet it's hard to accept this is all he can do.

He wonders when they will arrive. Some were sent directly from the capital, while the others should have only recently left the previous town, where they had dwelt longer than due to deal with an impromptu issue arisen at the tie-up of their last job. Akashi-san is nothing but thorough: he hates smudges, and accepts only a perfect and stable result for all their missions. So he was ordered to anticipate everyone into the next town, to make preparations for their stay, with the promise of keeping a low profile. But while they always took into account his inability to stay out of trouble, no one had really considered the unlikely chance of him ending up in an irreversible, time-limited situation.

He doesn't know how much time he has, but he doubts they'll be here anytime before tomorrow, at the very best. And if by then no one will have come to get him out, no one they will find. They will probably look around, waiting for him to show up, worrying when the major won't have news about him. Hours will pass and they'll start asking questions. A few villagers will be able to answer, perhaps. It scares him a bit that no one might remember him—but his comrades have good instincts, and Akashi-san is far too clever to lose against a forgetful town. He will understand what might have happened, will know where to look. He'll come across the town's guards, and the stricken faces of the people, then maybe the very man he tried to defend; in the end, he will find out about the sick workings of the town, about the cave.

The palms of his hands are starting to get clammy, his lips chapped. Swiping his tongue over them only makes them sting harder, as if they wanted to remind him of the clock ticking.

Once the sunlight recedes, he stands up and paces around despite the dizziness, observing the walls, and squeezing his brain to come up with anything—as if he hasn't been thinking about it constantly for the past two days.

There's still many hours before the sunset. )

.

When you come to, tightly bound by ropes cutting into your wrists, there's a girl nestled in the corner, reading a book. That and her well kept hair, and the way her hand elegantly stifles a story-induced giggle suggest that she must have been brought up in a way not unlike yours, and yet she has a sword dangling from her waist like all her comrades, and she's keeping guard to the room full of sleeping, tied up people that remind you you're all hostages in your own house. Your husband is nowhere in sight, which might mean his moment hasn't come yet. Yours seems to have, though.

You wish you had more courage to oppose the implications of your situation, but you know there's little chance for you to make it out of that room alive even if there's only a pretty girl keeping a distracted eye on your group. And when your eye falls on the crack between the _shogi_ doors giving onto the adjacent room, you realize that if you had had any plan, you'd have forgone it in that moment.

Akashi Seijuurou kneels on the floor of the tea room, dipping a bamboo ladle into the iron pot and serving it in two bowls. While the whisk works the blend of tea, Akashi's movements are refined, as if utmost precision in the simplest of actions were a skill ingrained in his very bones. You can only see the back of the man sitting in front of him, but you recognize him easily.

The unsettling presence who had floated like a shadow through the walls of the town when this had all started. Some at the court said he had come called by the chiefs; others said _onmyouji_ like him traveled from town to town attracted to the wavering spiritual forces, smelling tragedy from afar, thriving on it. Perhaps they said so because he was bound to be paid handsomely if he could solve your problems, but you think it would have been fair. You have grown up with your grandmother's stories and a nomad _onmyouji_ as your uncle, you have trust in men like those, men who deserve all the gratitude from people—you had, at least, before this one.

He who was supposed to get rid of that cursed spirit—you've heard stories about it as well, of skeletal creatures lurking in the night like ghosts, drinking human blood to sedate their thirst. But he didn't help. He betrayed you all, siding instead with the murderers from the capital. You don't think your family deserved any of this. It's true that your town was guilty of some crimes that should have been corrected, but this is a gratuitous massacre all gods would frown upon.

There had been another kind of voices about the _onmyouji_ as well, voices no one had truly believed, even when it was easy to hold onto a tiny shred of doubt when looking at the man, even more now that all of this was happening. Voices of monsters who turned back into humans. But those were only scary tales, like those your uncle used to tell you before sleep when he came to visit.

'I thank you for all that you did, Mayuzumi-san,' Akashi suddenly speaks up, offering a bowl of tea to the other, who takes it, but doesn't drink it right away.

'I did nothing but give you the information you were seeking,' he says. You can tell it's not by modesty that he speaks; there's no modesty in somebody who stands aside in the darkness while witnessing honorable families be exterminated.

'But information is all I ever needed,' Akashi replies, mellow, 'and you conceded it with astonishing disregard for the lives that would be at risk because of it.'

The bowl is finally raised, disappearing out of your view and you can barely catch Mayuzumi's murmur of disdain. 'I didn't like this town.'

It's not hard to tell Akashi is pleased with the answer, the meeting with a kindred spirit seemingly lightening his mood while darkening the atmosphere around him. The genuineness of the small smile he shows just above the rim of his tea bowl unsettles you deeply. How can men talk so calmly of cold-blooded murder? What kind of men serve the will of the capital?

'It is truly fateful that we could cross paths at such a crucial moment.' Akashi slightly tips his head in respect. 'So. Can you do what I asked of you?'

'I told you, memories aren't the only thing that will come with it.' There's a new quality to Mayuzumi's tone that you can't quite place, as if he was forcing himself to admit an uncomfortable secret. But by his next words the detachment clicks back in place. 'But yes, I can.'

The conversation has taken a turn you can't follow. You have no clue on what they're talking about, but it only worries you further. It has to be something related to what your family is going through. Could something even worse be set into motion?

'I understand that,' Akashi says evenly. 'However, you'd be surprised by how resilient he can be.'

'If he is, then why do you feel the need to take precautions?' Mayuzumi counters.

Akashi's face takes an odd expression, unreadable, as his slender finger absently caresses the edge of his bowl. 'He always had the most unfortunate flaw to dwell in guilt, like cranes dwell in shallow waters. This solution is for the best. It is not necessarily permanent, in any case.'

As both men fall deep into their own thoughts, an eerie silence descends on the house. Not broken even by the slightest hiss of wind. You are almost glad to hear Akashi talk again, at least to not drown in that suffocating void.

'Once this is settled, you could come with us. Your skills are of great interest to me.'

You can't tell what is Mayuzumi's true reaction to that, his tone too blank. 'I travel alone.'

'Considering your soon-to-be similar condition, you could teach him some,' Akashi says in a soft but so firm, compelling a voice, as if he were offering nothing but the simplest, undefiable logic. 'Furthermore, finally finding somebody who can understand what you are. Wouldn't that be a precious bond?'

When the first suspicion starts bugging you, you refuse to acknowledge it. But the more you listen, the more your mind keeps traveling back to the teasing voice of your uncle, telling you they were only stories to make you scared. They had to be.

'Are you asking me or speaking prematurely on his behalf?' Mayuzumi says, vaguely derisive.

'Can't it work both ways?' Akashi says as candidly as ever. 'I merely think you should give a serious thought to my offer, Mayuzumi-san.'

Mayuzumi doesn't answer, but Akashi doesn't seem offended by the lull in their conversation, lets it settle over them like a most pleasant quietness, noncurant of the people lying drugged just a few steps from them behind paper panels. He indulgently waits, as if expecting to be rewarded for his patience. No more exchanges follow and only then you notice you're sweating profusely, your forehead damp because of anxiety, fright, and whatever they have been giving you to keep you pliant and ductile all these days while they have taken charge of the entire court, to do of you as they please.

If your suspicions are correct, if what Akashi is implying is what you fear, then what is sitting in that room might be not completely human. A monster, or the vestiges of one, with the cold bones of a hundred dead knitted together to form one skeleton, disguised as a living person.

The darkest hours of the night approach, and you let out a strangled whimper at the mere possibility of being so close to the same kind of monster who'll soon come for you. When you frantically look up again, the ghost of a leer curls Akashi's lips as he stares right at you from the crack between the panels.

.

( Never before has such a limpid blue caused him so much anguish. He looks at the darkening sky, and tries to imagine a merciful rain pouring down, flooding the cave, drowning him. But the thought doesn't relieve him enough.

In a fit of panic, he has mindlessly dug with bare hands and pointed sticks through crumbs of hard earth, in hopes of finding any hint of humidity, and now his nails are chipped and dirty. The dust slowly seeps into everything, his mouth, the hair, the skin of his arms. He prays to the sky again only for a few drops of water to wash it away, and maybe ease the swell of his tongue.

His throat convulses with dry coughs and flashes spring before his eyes. For a long moment, he can't see anything. The heel of his hands presses soothingly against them as his back finds support against the walls.

If only he hadn't done anything as he was supposed to. If he hadn't meddled, hadn't tried to help. Had he been more careful, faster, had read those men better... Though it doesn't matter; now that it happened, he regrets ever—

No. He doesn't regret it. He did the right thing, even if the sluggishness reigning in his head makes it hard to think straight.

He knows that nothing will come out of calling for help. No one is out there, ready to pull him out of this hell. And if there is someone, just standing there, waiting for him to rot, then he prefers not knowing. Another fit of anxiety speeds up his heartbeat, chest heaving too rapidly. His shallow breaths seem to pull him down with the lack of air, and suddenly he can't stand upright anymore, even as his hands feel the restless need to grasp at something.

He slides down, too tired to oppose resistance. Pressing down on his growling stomach as if he could conjure the cramps away doesn't distract him, though, from the putrid scent of the cave, getting more revolting with each breath he takes. The dust flutters in the dim sunlight, and hewonders how much of it is withered bones, how much blood has soaked this soil. How many have died in here? Some must have been left to rot alone for a while, before they carried them out, dropped them in another open hole, no prayer to ease their paths after their life had been cut. Some must have been trapped here with somebody else, sharing the pain, until the hunger—but he shouldn't think of that.

Have they reached the town yet? If so, it shouldn't take too long. Kise-kun and Momoi-san never fail to yank even the most well kept secrets out of the most reticent mouth, and between them and Aomine-kun's inhuman intuition, any information can be acquired in no time. It will be fine, they will get him out of this. Then Midorima-kun will reprimand him for acting so recklessly all the time, something he's told him so many times he's lost count, but at least Murasakibara-kun will offer passive shelter. He can never tell with certainty what Akashi-san will do, but he likes to wonder. He might just look at him with a cocked eyebrow, expecting an excuse for inconveniencing them; or he might smile, in that indulgent way he smiles when he knows he should admonish him, but in the end decides to leave it for another time.

But regardless of what Akashi-san will do, he on the other hand, since he's a coward, won't say or do anything of what he has dreamed for a long time. He will only bow his head, apologize, and go back to serving Akashi-san as he's proudly pledged to always do. Soon enough their next job will distract them, and then he will take all the chaos around him, all the new dangers, once by their side. All of it. )

.

That repulsive man, the red-haired demon, is furious. He looks at you with embers in his eyes and a curl of disgust twisting his mouth, as if he's the one facing the monsters. You know better; but the man beside you, the head of the town guards, he screams and screams, excuses clashing with profanities and he's unsightly, a disgrace to the name of his family. This nightmare has proved that your family is not one of cowards, though, and you refuse to die as one.

'I… I hardly remember him!' your fellow guard yells, but his words aren't dignified with a reply, only serving to darken Akashi Seijuurou's face more.

You do remember, though; a boy, more than a man. It had been a while since anybody had put up such a resistance to a direct order from the guards. The commotion in the streets is still a vivid buzz in your memory. Your party was going to deliver a fair punishment, regardless of the peasants' discontent, and the sleazy mouse had barged in, insolent and foolish. He seemed to be a newcomer, soon to be reached by others with orders from the governor; that he was to speak with the major once they arrived, but you knew your chief wouldn't care. No shows of attitude had ever been allowed under his jurisdiction. If the boy wanted to prevent the imminent punishment of a vile farmhand, then he had to pay the price in the spared's stead.

You remember his eyes mostly, the traits of his face foggy in your memory. Inconsequential, like his deeds, his stifled grunt as you hit his cheek. But the eyes, a crystallized defiance shining too deep for a prison's cell to ever dull them; those you remember well. That was probably why the chief had decided for a change of plans, and hit him unconscious, the punishment not enough. It didn't look like the sleazy mouse had been expecting it. No wonder, you hadn't either. But you didn't protest as your group stripped him of his hidden weapons, and dragged that tiny body through the town, to the pit. On the contrary, you had taken pleasure in it. In pushing him over the edge. You knew he deserved it.

The ringing in your ears begins in subdued tones. It steals a dry sob out of your comrade's throat and desperate screams from the others, but nothing out of you. Then, a spell of stillness falls on everyone as the creature emerges from the nothingness in a nightmarish hush.

It is taller than trees, gigantic, and it's beside you, so close you can count the dark crevices running along its giant bones like a map of canyons, and hear the squelch of flesh when its teeth snap shut around the head of the councilman. When the blood spurts from the severed neck in the grotesque mimic of a water spring, even you have a moment of weakness. Not by word, by no chance, your lips are sealed: you have spoken your last sentence to your lord and you will die with the bittersweet tang of honor drying out your mouth. You feel your legs shake, nonetheless, with the regret of not having been the first, the second, the third.

But one last spark of pride swells within you as your chief's cry fills the night again as he breaks into a crazed run towards your enemy. Hardly a chance of escape, merely one last prideful act of mindless defiance; maybe hope, to cause mayhem by directing the creature's attention to them. Predictably, hisses of metal reverberate in the air, ready before your chief can even reach Akashi, and yet your spirit gains newfound strength—until your gaze finds Akashi's.

In all your life, in the eyes of all the people whose death you have witnessed for the glory and the safety of your family, you have never witnessed such a pulsating, corrosive ire, swallowing everything else on its path. Underneath the slither of moonlight, you can almost see Akashi's wretched soul on fire, barely hiding underneath a thin veil of self-control.

The chief doesn't get to be killed by humans. As if a guard itself, the creature is over him in the beat of an eyelash. Its bony hand flies down, snatches him high off his feet, and takes a bite off of him, fingers squeezing the body as if wanting to drain it to the last drop. In sick fascination, you can't tear your gaze away from the rivulets of blood falling on the creature's teeth and into its void throat. It's so close that heavy scarlet beads fall on Akashi, warming the pallor of his cheeks and the flatness of his temples. Akashi's fingers rise in apparent calm, flick off the blood trickling down his cheek, and then he looks at the smears on his hand. A look of haughty disdain deforms his face—and that's when it happens.

The creature stiffens, corpse forgotten in a lax hold. It lolls its head in entranced motions, like a broken doll, from one side to the other down to a nightmarish slowness, before it flashes down towards Akashi. Your heart thumps wildly in your chest.

'Akashi!' one of his men exclaims in alarm, daring a step forward, his sword standing higher as even the grey-clothed _onmyouji_ whose presence you had forgotten, breaks his statuary stillness and jerks away from the wall.

But he remains lingering a breath away from the flimsy moonlight like all the others, as the giant skull comes to a harsh halt right in front of Akashi, who holds one hand high towards them in an absolute command, and the other sliding only half of his sword out of its sheath, even he too slow or shocked to keep up with the monster's speed.

The creature's teeth clack ominously in excitement, rattling your bones. The black, void crevices of its nose move around, like a dog cautiously sniffing the air, and with a violent shiver you understand.

It's his hatred. A hatred so profound and crushing that it rivals that of a cursed spirit, that can catch their senses as if it were palpable, visible, even when Akashi is not—the protective charm dangles from his neck, the only promise of safety. If fear ever sojourned in the heart of that man, even in that moment it could have only lasted shortly. For he stands before it, shock glimmering in those scarlet irises, and then something more sickening than fear—a perverse curiosity has his grip on the sword go lax and moves his naked feet forward, until he's far less than an arm's length away. His gaze sweeps between the two enormous empty orbs of the creature. You find his search for sentience disgusting, a crazy man's hollow wish. Because nothing other than pitch darkness could ever swirl inside them, a darkness too deep to belong to this world—or so you think, before Akashi raises a bloodied hand and reaches out.

It is the most macabre scene you have ever witnessed, more bloodcurling than any conceivable violence, for in front of you there's one more monster. It must be so, because only a monster could tame another, could hold death in their arms and not get crushed under the weight. Only a monster could share such a fearless touch, palm splayed out over pallid bone, feeling its hardness with delicate wonder—and then bend their bloodied fingers, leaving a stark trail of crimson imprints like a tattoo of belonging; cradle it in a stained caress as if it were an old friend, a loved one.

Blind to all just as the creature is to him, Akashi sighs, a discrepant sound in that vicious night. He faces the monster with a wistful look that you could have never predicted.

'What am I going to do with you,' Akashi says just above a whisper, a boggling display of intimacy that, against all reasons, almost makes you feel like an intruder, 'Tetsuya?'

The only reply is a ghastly, smothered sough. Still desperate for a prey, for a source of all that hatred, the creature leans back and forth, explorative; but the anger is now gone completely, no trace of it burning within Akashi in that exact moment.

That's why, with another sonorous clack of its jaws, the creature finally desists—lurches its head away, back to you, and it lunges forward.

.

( 'Hang on, Tetsu. Can't be much longer, right?'

Puffs of dust rise where Aomine-kun's feet land, like tiny explosions around him, marking time at a slow rhythm. If he squints, chases the blurs away, there's only a haze of fine dust keeping him company—he stops looking. With effort, he rolls onto his back, and that's all he can do; lying motionless with arms spread open as the moon stares back at him, cutting the vast nightly blanket in a silver, perfect disk.

The strides keep circling him like a condor waiting to plane down for the rotting meat.

The words Aomine-kun utters are muddled, but it doesn't matter; he just likes hearing them. Sometimes the others' voices echo among the walls as well, when those seem to close in on him like a springing trap. He has never been good with solitude.

His eyes burn feverishly as the rest of him does, and air strains to travel from his mouth to the lungs. He feels as if water has been sucked out of his every particle, leaving a dried-up chrysalis behind.

At some point he must have blacked out because when he realizes he's looking up, the moon doesn't linger on the edge of the cave's opening anymore, but higher, shining above him, so gentle.

They haven't come in the end. They still might be looking for him, right now; but what are the chances. He wonders what they're doing. Are they worried? They must be, he tells himself, they must. His fingers anxiously scratch into the dirt, even if it hurts; then his train of thoughts scatters into blackness.

When he comes to, the moon is finally at its peak. It can't have been long but it feels as if ten other nights have passed in a rapid succession, not enough differences to tell them apart.

They might have left the town. How many days has it been, indeed? Four, six, twelve, is he really that hard to find? Maybe they haven't even tried searching for him at all. What if they just decided to move on. It shouldn't come as a surprise. It wouldn't be the first time—them, somebody else marring his memories, does it matter? The problem might have always been him. It's so easy to forget him behind.

A tingling sensation arises from the top of his head, as if something, somebody, were lightly stroking his hair. The grass dances in the wind, and it seems to carry his name in another familiar voice beckoning him to life.

The prickling spreads down his face, such a gracious touch brushes his cheeks, a comforting pain-numbing caress that pulls a raspy plea out of him.

'Please don't leave me here.'

It spreads and spreads all over, it tingles on his cracked lips like sparks of fire.

'Have I ever,' it might have whispered on his skin.

He is braver for a moment. Impulsively, he opens his dry eyes again—tries to, for his eyelids hesitate, like rusty old gates not giving out at the first push. And past them the blurriness only confuses him; but because of the redness swirling over him, his heart swells with hope.

When the mist fades from the glassy surface of his eyes, though, only the moon greets him, countours dipped in red halos as if sunk in blood, and a shudder wobbles out of his mouth, then another, and another again, as his heart starts hammering out of control. Panicked gasps wreck his aching chest when he realizes it's too late.

Nobody will come. His disappearance will just be an uninteresting mystery, one more lost corpse among many. Frustration flares within him, for all that he has never experienced or never will again, the faces and voices he will see or hear no more; all the things he hasn't said, the fleeting touches he still wishes for, the kisses never shared, caught forever on his lips only. It is unfair, it's so cruel. It's so sad. He skips the next breath.

Forgotten by the world, he lies alone. Yet it could have taken little to save you; one drop of water smearing your lips, plunging onto your tongue with its coppery taste. Just plucking their limbs one by one, and licking away the proof. It would have taken so little, and maybe… maybe you can still have that. The thirst is tearing your sanity into shreds, you'd do anything to ease it. There's so many voices whirling in your head, whispering their stories, how they died, what they left behind. You've become a hivemind, and you love and hate every single one of them, as their bones emerge from the earth to greet you.

The moon is still round, but larger; it draws so close that it's right out of the grasp of your hand. But you find that it is not drawing any closer, it's you who are growing, and growing, until you have passed the opening and you can see the outside for the first time in days. The cave looks like a mouse trap to you now; and you rise out of it like a dead from the grave, unforeseen and vindictive, suddenly above all, far above.

The moon is beautiful, crimson like water, and under its silent watch, you crawl away into the night. )

.

You have been preparing for this to happen. You had foreseen it long ago, yet you did nothing to prevent it but hold the town's hand in silence, as if that could be enough to help it get by. Too tied to leave, too cowardly to act. Regret has been eating at you for longer than a mere fortnight of nightmares, longer than you can remember. The heavy memories are draped on your soul like a thick cloak of sewn thorns, never easing their weight enough to let you breathe. The oppression, the innocents thrown in those forsaken holes, left to die for daring to speak up; the human fights, the peasants reduced to slaves. All those dead... it's no wonder that they came back to haunt you and this disgusting place.

It was only a matter of time before the capital sent somebody to deal with the town. They had come to settle the problems through mediation, but it's only another proof of how deep the grave has been dug that now you're all dying instead, no negotiation conceded. They had laid their plans bare to the entire court, making a merciless example out of the major, so that you could die knowing, fearing. In your abysmal weakness you clung to reasons to blame them at first, but you have no right to do that. Your town has been basking too long in blood and a twisted kind of power.

This might be after all the necessary punishment. What is more rightful than feeding to a monster its very creators? It might be what the town needs. Shedding the filth from its old back like a reptile's moult so it can start again.

So you wait for your turn on the doorsteps of what was the house of your family, now a graveyard, with tears streaming down your cheek. You can only hope they'll keep the promise of sparing the children, that they'll grant the town a chance of fixing things, that no thirst of revenge will come out of this, in endless circles.

People you have known all your life, that you have loved and despised, drop dead around you. Few of you are left still, as defenseless and terrified as you, but everyone is alone when meeting death.

The creature has descended on you crawling from above, peeking out from the roofs like a spider observing the preys trapped in its web. It moves in the courtyard now, almost invisible, flashing in and out of your sight like a dying candle. Then suddenly it's in front of you, mouth agape—its insides are a frightening vortex of obscurity. Trembling and gasping, you will yourself to be ready.

But a noise erupts from it, an otherworldly cry from a creature of silence. The ringing dies down slowly, it leaves your ears empty and free to listen to an ominous rasping. Its ribcage is just a huge, empty shell, no lungs safely encased in its embrace, and yet the creature cries out again, as if despairing to breathe.

Your mind is paralized with shock as you mutely watch the creature stagger away from you, you who are somehow still alive after all, while the monster—it starts shrinking. Its joints give out a groan, convulsing and shriveling up like petals of a starving flower, until the skeleton that has painted your nightmares white reaches the size of a human.

The red-haired man is on his feet and stepping forward before you even got a chance to understand, before wan skin has begun to grow back on the bone. The sockets fill out, crystals blooming into them like gemstones embedded in hilts, tufts of cerulean hair lengthen from the scalp; a grotesque mutation that carves itself behind your eyelids forever, with the image of not a monster anymore but a boy, a young naked figure gasping raggedly and stumbling on weak legs. He wheezes and crumbles to his knees—Akashi's arms leap forward to catch him before the fall.

There's no moon in the sky; darkness envelops them in a thick cocoon. The boy shivers violently, fingers spasming at Akashi's sides, too weak to clench around the warm, soft clothes. You are filled with many emotions you can't define, still struggling to grasp the meaning of all this. The monster is gone, a boy appeared in its place, and a suspicion slithers slowly into your thoughts: that maybe this bloodshed wasn't just punishment. You don't know what to feel. Shock, mostly; relief, perhaps. That all those deaths served a secret purpose. They all had to know, if their looks of anticipation had been anything to go by. It's ironic, you think, that you could never save any of the people you had wished to, and yet now you're here, your life offered to save another, but spared by luck.

Akashi takes the distraught boy's cheek in his hand; a thumb brushes away a single tear, of many unshed ones glimmering in those eyes which seem lost, looking far beyond the earthly things. His mouth whispers unintelligible words.

'Tetsuya,' Akashi calls firmly. 'Look at me.'

'I'm sorry,' Tetsuya stammers out louder this time, eyes more focused and teeth clacking in a way that reminds you of the bones they used to crunch, but your heart hammers because of guilt instead of fear. He looks so young, so scared. How could those be his first words? 'All those people—I couldn't… I was so hungry—' he chokes when trying to gulp too much air down his lungs, as if he weren't used to life anymore.

A _hakama_ is draped over his shoulders by one of his comrades, a bespectacled man who makes him look even tinier by towering close like a concerned parent—and for a moment, looking at that boy shivering in the night, adrift and wrapped in too big clothes, rasping out apology after apology, you think you can almost see why all of this happened, why Akashi did all of this.

Akashi cradles Tetsuya's head against his shoulder.

'You did nothing wrong,' he says gently, eyes falling shut. For the first time since the siege of your house, on that stoic face you catch a glimpse of humanity. Of peace.

Tetsuya's stutters pause but his spasms don't, no human warmth able to sedate the cold he must feel; but when his voice trembles anew, muffled by fabric, it mimics the painful flutters of your heart.

'Why did you let me,' he murmurs. You're unable to breathe. 'You could have avoided this… you should have let me go…'

It's in the blink of an eye that something shifts in Akashi's tightening grip, something you can't name but when Akashi's eyes flutter open again, there's a callous coldness even as his fingers ran oh so comfortingly on Tetsuya's nape. His quiet embrace looks as safe as a cage—deadly like a hunting trap.

'It's alright, Tetsuya.' Little has changed in his voice, and yet this time a shiver runs along your spine. 'It will all soon be just a bad nightmare.'

A beat of stillness befalls, one you don't understand but Tetsuya seems to, and with a sudden, violent jerk he tries to pull away.

'No,' Tetsuya breathes, eyes wild, able to look at Akashi only when Akashi's hand lets the back of his head go, to disappear until they slip around Tetsuya's wrists, holding them in a steely grip. He gives a nod to somebody you notice only now, who detaches himself from the shadows to approach them in a swirl of grey clothes.

Tetsuya's hands flail madly against Akashi's chest. 'No no no, please don't... You can't do this to me. I have to, they asked me to—'

Too caught by the exchange, you glance at the other men of Akashi's group only shortly, to see them shift on their feet, refraining from approaching even if wishing to, swords still raised towards you, threatening—except for the dark skinned man, who gazes down with an angry frown, kicking at the ground. A realization hits you as the boy's hands struggle against Akashi's clothes, trying to rise to his impassive face, nails digging into Akashi's collarbones. A feeling of pity swallows you. For whom of them, you don't know.

'This isn't for you to decide! Akashi-san, please don't make me forge—No!'

Tetsuya's sob is choked by a hand landing on his forehead, forcing it back until Tetsuya is staring upwards, right at the _onmyouji_ looming over him. A bloodied thumb swipes on Tetsuya's protesting lips, smearing the redness over them, before moving to the forehead again, where it firmly presses into the skin. The bloody symbols painted on the back of that hand shine for a moment, before Tetsuya's body falls motionless, with no more pleas, plummeting into Akashi when the _onmyouji_ lets him go. Carefully manoeuvring him, Akashi helps him up in the waiting arms of the bespectacled guard, laying his head better on the other's chest, and just like that, with Akashi threading his fingers through a sleeping Tetsuya's battered and messy light hair, the nightmare seems to end. For you, for the town, for everyone else.

But there's still swords pointed at you before the final curtain can come down. The regret is still there, you haven't paid the price—but, tentatively, you think maybe you have, as you look around once again, at the corpses, and the pools of fresh blood surrounding you, sinking into the dewy grass.

'Akachin,' one of them calls while the sleeping boy is escorted inside the house. 'What do we do with the remaining ones?'

The moonless night doesn't hide Akashi's face when he turns around and looks right at you as if he could name each of the sins you swarm in. You are reminded of Akashi's words at the beginning, nights earlier, when he talked to all of you about your destiny, your death, the end of your town.

I want you to be aware that this is not revenge, he had said, it's a tribute you must pay until you are absolved of your crimes. When you looked at his collected expression and thought of what you did, you had trusted him. Had you known of the true purpose, you would have trusted those words even more.

But by now you have witnessed a lot of things. You saw the boy, you saw the caring, and how it was forcefully drowned somewhere in the tightening grip against wrists, in the cold gaze directed at the same person whom Akashi had cradled moments before, and you think that, perhaps, what will come next will be the most personal revenge of all. No greater goals, no mercy. Not only for his comrade, but for Akashi as well.

You surprise yourself wondering if the boy would want that, if he would consider this enough. You don't know if he would be right thinking that, if your town could ever involve you in its rebirth. You have no idea if all of that be in any way relevant right now.

Akashi's mouth opens to pronounce one last order.

.

.

.

Tetsuya wakes up to dark clouds silhouetting Kise-kun, who sits beside him, elbows idly resting on his knees, against the side of the creaking cart they're traveling on. Beyond the crook of his neck, Tetsuya can vaguely distinguish the faint slice of a crescent moon, peeking low from a limpid spot.

When Kise-kun notices, he greets him with a small smile that dimly warms the dawn. 'Good morning.'

'What happened?' Tetsuya asks, his voice scratchy from too little use. He feels no pain, but an incredible fatigue weakens all his muscles. He remains lying despite his wish to sit up, feeling like he's trapped in his own body.

'You've been drifting in and out for days now,' Kise-kun replies. 'What do you remember?'

Squinting, Tetsuya tries to bring back shreds of anything. The words don't exactly feel right when they stumble low-pitched and uncertain out of his mouth, but they're the only ones he's got to offer.

'I was in a cave. I think the guards threw me in it. Then I…'

Nothing follows. Sparse images of the cave start to plague his mind, the feeling of parched and thirst still somewhat fresh, but in-between those there's intermittent holes that he cannot fill, a black wall standing in the flow of his memories. Kise-kun doesn't look too concerned by his confusion; he just hums, not losing his easy-going smile.

'Yeah, well, that's pretty much it.' There's something in Kise-kun's words that sounds a tad too loud, too forced to Tetsuya's ears, but he's too spent to question Kise-kun's quirks right now. 'You were almost dead by the time we found you, Kurokocchi! It was a very close one.' Kise-kun sighs, scratching the back of his neck. 'But it all went well. We got you out of it and then we dealt with the rest. You don't have to worry about it.'

With difficulty, Tetsuya manages to move his hand up under the layers of blankets, and hide his stingy eyes from Kise-kun. The relief almost has him tremble, but he bites his lips until the pain calms him down. He wonders about the town, if they had to execute somebody in the end or if they could solve things peacefully enough. He doesn't have too much trust in that: the town's situation seemed worse than they had expected it, but Akashi-san isn't the leader for anything. He probably did the right thing to move on. He usually does, with or without Tetsuya's help.

When he turns his head to the other side to study the surroundings, he is surprised to see somebody he has never met before. There's a man on horseback keeping pace with the cart. All about him is grey: the garments, the hair. Even the face, blank and pallid, almost lacks any rosy hue. The eyes as well, Tetsuya discovers when they land on him, as if beckoned by his sudden curiosity. As he gets caught in that dull gaze, his heartbeat speeds up. He finds no depth in the man's stare, to the point that it's hard to tell if he's looking at him or right through. A vague, rootless thought begins to welter in his mind, fastidiously nipping at its corners when what he finds there is only a transient shadow, a worrisome inconsistency. It's like staring at water, colorless, lifeless yet in motion; showing nothing to Tetsuya but his haunted reflection staring right back just as hollowly. His heart is hammering in his chest now and unable to look away, Tetsuya drowns, in a clogging mist of cold, latching onto his limbs and pulling him down, down—

'If you are wondering, we are moving south now. We should reach an inn by midday.'

Tetsuya's attention leaps back to Kise-kun like a spring safely recoiling on itself. His quickened breathing evens out, and the drowsiness returns to him like a tidal wave. Puzzled by his own reaction, he attempts another quick glance at the cloaked man, but he has trotted ahead of them, out of the way.

'Who is he?' Tetsuya suddenly whispers, trying to hide his agitation.

Kise-kun's eyes flicker to the front, and albeit with effort, Tetsuya cranes his neck to follow.

From where he lies, he can only catch the sight of Akashi-san's back through the wooden bars of the cart. He leads the group on his white horse, having a discussion with the unknown man now traveling by his side. The breeze ruffles his hair, the most vivid contrast with the bleak sky and a reassuring sight when Tetsuya has woken up to find all colors duller, as if concealed beneath a darkening, washed out filter.

'Later, Kurokocchi,' Kise-kun prompts him gently. His hands move to the blanket, tucking them closer to his shivering body, before brushing strands of hair away from his forehead. 'It's best if you rest some more. We'll talk when you feel better.'

Tetsuya agrees weakly, trusting Kise-kun's presence. His eyes fall closed under Kise-kun's soothing touch, and soon he drifts off again.

Behind closed eyelids, his consciousness travels back and forth, from Kise-kun's lingering fingertips to deeper recesses inhabited by old corpses, swept around by harsh storms; to a huge beautiful house, whose _engawa_ is skimmed by the rhytmic waves of a bubbling sea of blood, and cadaveric hands rising from it to clasp around his heart. To an icy coldness pervading him and strings of darkness enveloping him into a cocoon, where he breathes in the moon, the spirits, and on his tongue they taste like dust, and death.

.

.

.

* * *

 **actually the prequel of a long never-to-exist story about kuroko Remembering Who He Is, and dramatically ditching akashikun to go on a journey of self-discovery, with mayuzumi in tow as his annoyed buddy/babysitter, fighting spirits together and learning necromancy under the very distant eye of akashisan.**  
 **boy did i miss writing creepier stuff tho. thanks to TAMI3 who gave me the necessary ideas to insert mayu in the story im so glad i lovhTAe m ayuu mzi ch iauhauahu. I hadn't planned to have akashi and mayu sound like such buddies in this one. But I guess when your plan is to kill half a town to bring your almost lover back from the dead, it's easy to get along with uncaring people who don't oppose your wishes (:**  
 **bye im going back writing dorks in love**


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